


The Song of The White Tree

by Lunarium



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, The Juniper Tree fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-18 20:11:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8174525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/pseuds/Lunarium
Summary: Tar-Palantir's wife makes a wish under the White Tree of Nimloth for a child as fair as its silver leaves.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Wavesinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/gifts).



> For Wavesinger. I was really inspired by your idea of mixing in the tale of Númenor and The Juniper Tree! I think the two tales fused really well! :) 
> 
> Many thanks to my beta!

Once upon a time there lived a prince named Palantir on the star-shaped island of Númenor. His father Ar-Gimilzôr the king was strictly against the elves, but his mother was of the Faithful, an Elf-friend, and taught her son to follow in her steps. When the strict king grew old and stepped down from his throne, he passed on his Scepter to his son, and Prince Palantir became known as Tar-Palantir, the king of Númenor. He had by then become a handsome and wise man, and he had wed one of his mother's handmaidens named Pirindië, who was also an Elf-friend. 

Tar-Palantir and Pirindië loved each other very much, but they had married late in life, choosing to take their courtship as slow as the currents of the vast sea around their home. For that reason they could not bear a child, and Pirindië grew mournful that she could not give him the joy of an heir. 

In the King’s Court in Armenelos stood a large white tree named Nimloth, and Pirindië made a wish to have a child as fair as its silver leaves. Pirindië made this wish every night for a week, standing below Nimloth. And after each night, she saw the leaves shimmer bright as though they captured her wish in them. She took it as a sign. 

By the following year, Pirindië conceived, and the child was born in perfect health. But Pirindië could scarcely leave her bed, and by morning she passed away. By request she was buried right under the White Tree so as to always be close to her daughter. 

Tar-Palantir loved his daughter, who was pale with silvery eyes, and whose dark tresses held the unmistakable shimmer of silver like the underside of Nimloth’s silver leaves. He raised her alone and raised her well, and with her always was her cousin Calion. 

As the older child and of the direct line of the king, it was expected for Míriel to become the next ruling Queen after her father passed on the Scepter to her, but the enemies’ voices whispered in shadows, shadows which then took on the form of an enemy at their door. 

Sauron was his name, though to the royal family and all of Númenor he was known as Annatar, the Lord of Gifts, and he coaxed Tar-Palantir only in getting him to accept his presence in court. But it was enough to spread his filth into the palace, steadily growing a following of supporters. 

By then Míriel had grown fair and intelligent, with all the signs of becoming an exceptional leader. And though try as he might to alter Calion’s mind, filling him with visions of a future where he could rule Númenor as Ar-Pharazôn, the affection for his cousin was greater and he would not give a moment’s attention to Sauron. 

Perceiving fair Míriel as a threat, Sauron secretly plotted against her. 

One night while gazing out towards the open court, Míriel noticed something tucked away under the bushes, easily missed at first glance. She had come here so frequently to visit her mother’s grave that she knew every detail, and the black blotch stood out. Making her way to the courtyard, she saw it was a long peculiar black box, lid wide open to velvet interior. 

Wondering who had placed it there and why, she leaned to get a better look inside when the lid came down swiftly, the razor-sharp edge cutting off her head. 

Sauron commanded the king’s chefs to cook up her flesh to feed to all of the men of the court. Calion commented that the meat was delicious, but Tar-Palantir immediately fell ill, though he could not pinpoint the source of his worries. Míriel was nowhere in sight, though Sauron had him believe she had been called to visit a friend out in the farthest reaches of the island. 

Yet hearing this, Calion, who knew his cousin well, began to have his doubts, and later that evening dug through the kitchens till he uncovered her bones. Distraught, he buried them under the White Tree of Nimloth beside her mother and parted to contemplate how to approach the subject to his king. 

But no sooner had he covered the bones that a bird flew from the grave, a most beautiful nightingale that stole his breath when it flew away into the night. 

By morning her song was heard by a goldsmith just approaching his smithy, and the voice moved him so that he offered the nightingale a golden chain necklace that she gratefully pecked from his hand. 

Next she sang to a mariner who listened to her tale of sorrow, and moved by her beautiful voice, gave her a tiny rowboat. 

Lastly, her voice, the faintest trace of elven blood still within, was heard by one of her distance kin who stopped and listened to the bird’s grief about how her short life had ended. The elf bestowed upon her a gift of greatest honor and reverence. 

The following day, Tar-Palantir stepped out as he heard a beautiful sound like chimes, and he caught sight of the nightingale. Remembering the tales of the elf Lúthien who forsook her immortality to become mortal with her lover Beren, hope filled his aging heart just as the nightingale dropped a golden chain into his open palm. 

Peering closer at it he noted the long silvery strands that were always interwoven and glimmering in the long thick black locks of his dear daughter. Looking up again, he took a good look at the nightingale and remembered: the bird was Lúthien’s namesake. Lúthien Tinúviel, who was their distant ancestor.

“Míriel?” he called out, and the bird answered. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment before speaking again.

“Then you have not died,” he said. “You live on as you are before me.”

With a sad smile, he returned inside. Slipping back into bed, he closed his eyes, and passed on with a smile on his tired old face, assured there was hope still.

Next to hear the song was Ar-Pharazôn, the new king of Númenor. Ar-Pharazôn who was once Calion. Without the council of his cousin, he had let himself start to believe Sauron’s lies against his better judgment. But fear had also played a part, for he could not find strength in him to contend against the powerful dark lord. Hated, a puppet, Ar-Pharazôn had become exactly the ruler Sauron had sought to control. 

But then a voice, fairest of all, drew Ar-Pharazôn away from the throne and out into the courtyard where he was surrounded by the songbird. Holding out his hand, the nightingale dropped a tiny rowboat into his palm. A vision of the sea sprang into his mind, and immediately his commanding voice called for his men. 

By the evening they had sailed out of the toppling Númenor, but it was not Ar-Pharazôn who left Númenor, but Tar-Calion, the song of his cousin ever ringing in his mind. And it was said he sailed to seek aid from the elves. 

Sauron remained in Númenor as it burned. Enraged, furious of the rumors he had heard of a bird claiming back the king, he continued his own plans without any Númenórean king or queen, sacrifice after sacrifice as endless drumbeats. He had his own followers, a cult who worshipped Morgoth feverishly. As the most powerful man of Númenor remaining, Sauron ordered for every Faithful to be dragged into the temple, their blood spilled in the call to draw Morgoth out from his prison. 

When the voice called for him, he at first ignored it, but soon his resolve broke, replaced with the intense disdain and desire to crush the bird once he glimpsed it. He killed the princess Míriel easily once before. He could very quicker crush the irritating bird in his fist and return to his task without much delay. He may even have the damn tree taken down to spite whatever remained of the Faithful. 

And so Annatar, Sauron, stormed out into the burning courtyard, his mind vaguely registering that the flames did not touch the White Tree. The nightingale sat atop the tree and sang, her voice powerful and beautiful, and terrifying. 

The nightingale’s gaze fell steadily on Sauron, a shimmer of silver in her eyes, and she gave a final resonating tune.

And suddenly, Sauron shrieked as the most unbearable pain seized him. Elven light burst forth from his form, casting him out of his shell. Made bodiless, defeated, the birdsong ringing on like the tolling of death bells, Sauron fled Númenor to safer lands. 

The fire ceased. The final nightingale song carried on, the sad undertones perking into that of hope, before drifting, fading with the sunny morning.


End file.
